


Another Barrier

by kenzimone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: CSP, Community: hoodie_time, Dermatillomania, Excoriation Disorder, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Season/Series 01, Skin Picking Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenzimone/pseuds/kenzimone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't notice it right away. He probably should have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Barrier

**Author's Note:**

> **Note #1** : Written for [this](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/191293.html?thread=1769533#t1769533) prompt on hoodie_time's h/c comment meme and set sometime early season one. Unbeta'd. May contain **triggers**. Title is from _Addict_ by Cai.ro.  
>  **Note #2** : I never intended to fill this, but as someone who suffers from the condition the prompt stuck with me and I managed to finish about 75% of this then-WIP back in 2010 before my attention wandered to other things. In the following years I stopped watching the show and dropped out of the fandom, but would still take this WIP out now and then to dust it off and add a couple of lines before stuffing it back into the dark corner of my hard drive from whence it came. It recently occurred to me that if I ever want it out of my head for good the only way to do so is to actually finish and post it. So here we go.

Sam doesn't notice it right away. He probably should have – he _definitely_ should have – but he spends the first few weeks after the fire in a walking daze. Jess is everywhere, her face superimposed over the features of every young woman in the street, the white nightgown of her ghost a glimpse in every crowd. When Sam closes his eyes he can see her staring down at him from the ceiling, and when he sleeps he dreams of gaping mouths and burning flesh. He doesn't sleep much.

They've been on the road for almost two months when Sam wakes one morning to find Dean's bed empty. A glance across the motel room reveals his brother standing in front of the cracked mirror in the bathroom, a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth and his left arm raised up towards his face in scrutiny. The fingers of his right hand trace a circular pattern on the skin near his wrist, round and round, a hypnotic and fluid movement, and Sam watches him for a moment before rolling out of bed and grabbing his jeans off the floor.

Once he's dressed he joins Dean in the bathroom, smiling slightly at the look of absolute focus on his brother's face, before grabbing his own toothbrush and hip checking Dean lightly to the side to gain access to the sink.

Dean flinches, lowering his arm and turning to scowl at his brother as Sam starts brushing his teeth.

“Bedbugs?” Sam asks around his toothbrush, taking in the small scabs littering Dean's forearms.

Dean shrugs and spits into the sink, wiping his mouth. “Something like that,” he says.

...

Sam doesn't really think about it much. There's no reason to; with the amount of motels they frequent – and the state of some of the rooms they sleep in – they're bound to run into bedbugs or fleas or what-have-you sooner rather than later.

The weird thing, as Sam slowly comes to realize, is that even though they sleep in the same room – and on occasion, if they're really unlucky, the same bed – Dean's the only one who ends up bitten.

“C'mon, Sammy,” he says, smile bright as he hoists his bag into the trunk of the Impala. “What kind of bug would choose to bite _you_ when they've got _me_ to feast on?”

Sam rolls his eyes and drops the subject.

 ...

They spend two days cooped up in a motel room in Irwin, Pennsylvania, researching a possible case of a Myling. Other than heading out on a ridiculous number of coffee runs Dean doesn't complain much at first, dutifully going through the newspapers and reading all of the obituaries, but soon he grows antsy and takes to muttering under his breath.

Sam focuses on his own research and tunes his brother out (it's a perfectly mastered art form by now), not snapping back to reality until he realizes that Dean's gone silent, the only sounds in the room that of papers being shuffled and the soft clicking of Sam's typing.

Dean's still sitting on the bed, cross-legged with the newspapers spread out on the bedspread before him, but he's scanning the pages quietly, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and his right hand running absently over his left arm. Now and then he'll reach out to turn a page or rearrange the papers in front of him, but he always returns to that default position – hunched over, fingertips running up and down his forearm.

Sam's stopped typing, but Dean doesn't seem to notice. He's got a blank look on his face even though his gaze is moving across the pages, and Sam wonders if he's even really paying attention to what he's reading. The fingers pause their journey for a moment, brushing over and then pressing down on a particular spot near the elbow, and then Dean starts scratching at it.

Sam takes in the bites littering his brother's arms. There's a whole array of them, some healing nicely, some so fresh they haven't had time to form scabs yet.

He clears his throat. “Do they itch?”

Dean blinks, gaze snapping up to meet Sam's as he yanks his hand away from his arm. “What?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing. It's nothing.” He turns back to his laptop and spends the next five minutes trying to focus on Scandinavian folklore. In the corner of his eye he can see the slow movement of Dean's hand once more, and he ignores it as best he can before giving in and glancing over towards the bed.

“Dean. You're bleeding.”

His brother starts, frowning as he raises his hand to get a better look at the blood staining his index finger and thumb. “Shit.” Dean looks like he's considering wiping the blood off onto his shirt, but then he sticks his fingers in his mouth instead.

Disgusted, Sam returns his attention to his online search results as Dean swipes at the bleeding sore by his elbow, saliva mixing with blood and smearing across the skin, before rolling down his sleeve to cover his arm.

 ...

It takes them a while, but eventually they identify the Myling and narrow down the area in which its bones are most likely buried. The grave is unmarked and located a stone's throw away from cemetery, and while Sam goes to work on relocating it onto hallowed ground, Dean finds himself playing decoy.

By the time Sam's granted the spirit rest, the weight of the Myling has got Dean sunk down to his knees in the soft soil of the graveyard, and Sam has to help him dig his way out. They return to their motel room exhausted and covered in dirt. Dean forgoes a shower in favor of stripping down to his boxers and slipping in under the covers of his bed, while Sam takes the time to rinse the soil off his skin and out of his hair.

When he comes out of the bathroom Dean is sprawled face down on his bed, sleeping the sleep of the utterly exhausted. Pulling on a clean pair of boxers and a T-shirt, Sam sinks down onto his bed and blinks drowsily against the warm light of the lamp on the bedside table. Dean murmurs something under his breath and shifts in his sleep, right hand sliding under the pillow to grip the handle of the knife hidden there while his left arm stretches away from his body, almost as if he's reaching out toward Sam's bed in his sleep. Toward Sam.

Dean's body is pretty heavily scarred. Sam knows this. It'd be strange if it wasn't, considering their line of work. His own is as well, though it doesn't quite tell the story like that of a pigheaded and overprotective older brother. Claw marks and knife wounds and burns from fires large and small; Dean wears his scars well and – when it comes to most of them – proudly, always ready to charm a pretty face by weaving tall tales about triumph in the face of grave danger and adversity, but now Sam's eyes are drawn to the ones that never warrant a mention in Dean's embellishments, the ones that perhaps matter most – if not to Dean than at least to Sam – the ones that stand out as harsh reminders of the near misses and failures – that tell of sacrifice, the times when blood was spilled – and if he closes his eyes Sam can still feel the frantic beating of his heart, the metallic taste in his mouth, the sticky, warm liquid escaping between his fingers as he pushes down and feels Dean shake in pain beneath his hands as Dad, thin lipped and dark eyed, threads the needle with steady hands.

He forces his eyes open, blinking against the dim light, and Dad fades back into the shadows that linger in the corners of the room, leaving nothing but Sam and Dean and the broad expanse of Dean's back, skin marred but healthy. Sam knows most of the scars, and is slowly piecing together the stories of the ones acquired during his stint at Stanford, but now, taking the time to study his brother's skin in the light of the cheap bedside lamp, he realizes that there are a few – _many_ – that look... off.

They're small, tiny and almost round, kind of like cigarette burns but smoother, similar in size to the scabs dotting Dean's skin since recent. They litter Dean's arms (and upper back and neck) like freckles, scare old and new mingling with healing scabs.

 _Bed bugs_ , Sam thinks sluggishly, but that can't be right. The scars are too centered, too contained to certain areas of Dean's body. He tries to come up with another explanation but draws a blank. He's dead on his feet and his mind feels fuzzy – it can't name any creature or spirit or scenario that would cause such scarring as this.

He won't have a breakthrough tonight, not when he's this tired. Smothering a yawn, Sam reaches out and switches the lamp off before burrowing in under the covers of his bed.

 ...

When in doubt, Google it.

Another case, another town, another motel room. It's late afternoon and there's a blizzard howling outside. It's been going strong since mid morning. They went out to get pizza earlier, and now they're cooped up in their room, bellies full, watching the snow drown the outside world in white.

The ancient television set is on, and Dean's watching a weather forecast through crappy reception. He's frowning at the cloud formations swirling across the screen, one hand worrying the collar of his shirt as he gives Sam a colorful commentary on the weather man's choice of suit.

Sitting at the ratty table by the motel room door, Sam's long since stopped listening to his brother. He's answering emails, taking care not to open anything from Jess' friends or family. They all say the same thing, and he has yet to come up with the words they deserve to receive in reply.

On the bed, Dean's fallen silent. When Sam glances up his brother's scratching at the back of his neck, head tilted in what looks like a painful angle.

“Dean?”

Dean straightens, pulling his hand away from his neck and leaning back against the bed's headboard. He uses the remote to raise the volume, and Sam's suddenly struck by the thought that his brother's trying to act _casual_.

“What?” Dean says, scowling at him.

“Nothing.” Déjà vu. “Forget it.” Sam turns back to his laptop and contemplates his web browser. A quick click and he's opened up a new Google search.

 _skin scratching_ he types, and hits enter.

 ...

If he expected it to be a long and fruitless search, he's pleasantly surprised. The first few links tell him everything he needs to know. He clicks through to Wikipedia.

Dermatillomania. Compulsive Skin Picking. CSP for short. An impulse control disorder, like kleptomania or pyromania, the onset of which usually occurs between the ages of seven and fifteen, though in some cases not until well into adulthood.

 _Dermatillomania_ , Sam reads, _is defined as 'repetitive and compulsive picking of skin which results in tissue damage'. Episodes of skin picking are often preceded or accompanied by tension, anxiety, stress, or paranoia_. _During these moments, there is commonly a compulsive urge to pick, bite, or scratch at a surface or region of the body, often at the location of a perceived skin defect. Sufferers may experience relief from upsetting emotions by engaging in skin picking._

Further down on the page: _Aware of the damage they are inflicting, many sufferers feel and recognize a need to stop the behavior but are physically and mentally unable to do so without aid._

Going back to the Google results and delving a little deeper, he comes across the message boards.

_'I hate the scars, but I'm doing it to myself so I deserve what I get.'_

_'My parents were divorcing and I felt like it was the one stable thing I could depend on.'_

_'It's okay as long as I keep busy. I can control it then. It's when I relax and let my mind wander that it gets bad.'_

_'I know there's nothing wrong with my skin, but I still find these tiny flaws. They feel_ wrong _and like I need to do something about them, so I start picking. As long as I'm doing it I actually believe that I'm making it better, like it's going to be perfect when I'm done, but then I snap out of it and realize that I've only manage to make it so much worse.'_

Sam exhales. Things are going to get awkward.

 ...

Dean looks surprised when Sam sits down on the adjacent bed and plucks the remote out of his hand, but he accepts the laptop without comment. Sam's left the Wikipedia article open, and he lowers the volume on the television as he waits for Dean to finish reading.

“Uh, Sam? Why are you showing me this?”

Sam shrugs and places the remote on the bedside table. “I didn't know if you knew about it. Thought you might want to.”

“Again, why?”

Sam ignores the question. “So, did you know?”

“Know what? That you're a dork?” Dean closes the laptop forcefully, pushing it off his lap, and would probably have been perfectly fine with it hitting the floor had Sam not been quick to reach out and snatch it out of harm's way.

“Hey!”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and fixes his gaze on the television, where the weather report has cut to commercial and a woman is brushing her teeth and smiling at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “We're not talking about this,” he says.

“Dean...”

“No, Sam,” Dean says and reaches out to steal back the remote. “Drop it.”

But Sam can't drop it. The snow's coming down outside and the light in the room is dim, the television bathing his brother's profile in a flickering, washed out light, and Sam can't keep the cogs in his head from turning.

He's read the articles and forums posts, but it's still not enough. He can't grasp _why_ , can't understand what would make Dean consciously dig his fingernails into his skin until he _bleeds_ and _hurts_ and _scars_. Sam likes to believe that he knows his brother, knows him better than anyone else, and it's knowledge gained from a shared childhood, from growing up in each other's pockets with a complete lack of privacy, from being left to their own devices, and Sam stops his hands from clenching into fists because thinking about it always makes him angry.

He can't understand how he missed this. _Onset usually occurs between the ages of seven and fifteen_ , he recalls, and how did he _miss this_? How did Dean keep this from him? And what else is there that Sam doesn't know?

“What—” he breathes, tightening his grip on the laptop. “Dean.”

And there must have been a hitch in his voice, because the look on Dean's face is achingly familiar; hard around the edges, barbed and unwelcoming and challenging, but beyond the clenched jaw Sam can see the softness around his eyes, and it's a comforting expression that has followed Sam from diapers and into adulthood, one that tells him that Dean might tease and push and infuriate Sam to no end, but he'll also fight and kill and die for him. Will do anything to keep Sam safe. To keep him happy.

“ _Dean_ ,” he says again, and if it comes out like a plea he doesn't care, even as it hangs heavy and awkward in the air between them. He sets the laptop on the bedspread next to him and refocuses his attention on his brother. “Dean. We need to talk about this.”

“We really don't,” Dean says, still staring at the television as if the infomercials are the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

Sam takes a breath, and it feels strangely like gathering courage. “I'll ask again. Tomorrow, or the day after. When we're driving. I'll ask until you answer me. I need to... Can't you jus—”

“Fine,” Dean grits out out between clenched teeth. “ _Fine_. If you're going to be such a little _bitch_ about it – if this'll make you _shut the Hell up_ – then okay. Go ahead.”

Sam swallows, and can't decide if the pressure in his chest is growing lighter or heavier now that he's got his way. “Okay,” he says, wetting his lips. “Yeah, okay. I want to— What, uh... What sets it off?”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose and doesn't answer for a full minute, long enough for Sam to start to wonder if he's changed his mind. “Boredom,” he says at last and shrugs. “Being cooped up like this. Staking out a place for a hunt. Sometimes I just get it into my head that I need to... to fix it.” He raises the remote and changes the channel on the television, and on screen Sam can see the set of Central Perk. Even though the volume is low he can still hear the echo of the laugh track.

“Fix what?”

“I don't know. It's just this feeling. Like when I'm hunting.” He pauses. “Like a gut feeling, an itch. And then I fix it.”

“But it's not helping,” Sam says, and it's not quite a question.

The look Dean shoots him makes it very clear that he thinks Sam's both an idiot and a jackass. “I'm not stupid. I know it doesn't help.”

“Then why don't—”

“I swear to God, Sammy. If you say 'just stop' I'm going to get the Colt and I'm going to shoot you in the face.” Dean grimaces, shifting his shoulders like he's physically uncomfortable with where the conversation is heading. “It's— Look, most of the time I don't even realize I'm doing it, okay? I zone out for a while and then I don't snap out of it until someone tries to catch my attention or I realize what I'm doing.”

Sam keeps quiet and waits for his brother to continue, but Dean doesn't. Apparently Sam's going to have to pry the information out of him. Nothing new here.

“How long?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, pointedly ignoring his brother's stink eye. “I mean, how long has it been going on?”

Dean purses his lips. “I think it's alw— Mom—” he clears his throat and lifts his hand off his chest, spreading his fingers. “Sometimes Mom used to put these band-aids on my fingers, to keep me from, you know. And it must have looked stupid, this kid running around with band-aids all over his hands, but they always had some kind of cartoon on them, Transformers or Ninja Turtles or Superman, and I used to think it was the coolest thing ever.”

The look on Dean's face tugs at something painful in Sam's chest. It always does on the rare occasions that Dean shares something about Mom, because Sam was too young to remember, and whatever treasured tales he's hoarded like gold throughout his childhood are just that – stories. When Dean speaks of Before his eyes soften and focus on something that Sam can't see, something that was once _real_ , and Sam can't follow him there. Instead he's left alone in a stuffy motel room in the middle of Nowhere, holding onto his second hand memories like they're something precious, something he can't afford to lose.

Dean's exhale is almost a sigh, and he drops his hand back down onto his chest. He clears his throat. “I don't remember much. Used to pick at my cuticles. Lost a fingernail or two, once, I think. Freaked Mom out.”

“I didn't—” Sam says. “I never noticed.”

Dean snorts. “I'm not surprised. Spent your days with your nose stuck in a book. Such a Brainiac. Besides, wasn't so bad back then. I had better things to do, between the hunting and... stuff.” He trails off, but Sam's helpful mind happily supplies _me_. _Between hunting and taking care of me_.

“Distractions,” Sam says, and Dean grunts. “What about after? After I left for... After Dad?”

Dean blinks against the flickering light of the television, and Sam can almost see the moment the shutters come slamming down. His brother is made up of walls erected behind walls, and while Sam prides himself on having long ago learned to navigate the maze that is Dean's issues, sometime he still takes the wrong turn and ends up stumbling face first into the coarse brick and mortar of an impenetrable dead end.

“I, uh... I researched it,” he says, ignoring Dean's snort. “There are things that can... help. Cognitive behavioral therapy. Medication. In some cases hypnosis has actu—”

“Whoa, Sammy.” Dean's voice is low and his expression is far from pleased. “Hold your horses. Therapy? _Drugs_?” He laughs, a short bark. “Really?”

Sam clenches his jaw. “It would help. This isn't nor—”

“I _know_ it isn't normal behavior, Sam!” Dean snaps. He pushes himself off the bed and stalks into the middle of the room before turning to face his brother. “Don't you think I already know that? Don't you think I'd stop this if I could?”

Sam says nothing, and Dean wipes his hand down his face.

“I'm sorry, Sammy. Okay? _I'm sorry_. I know you're hung up on this idea of what... of what this family should or shouldn't be, on this picture perfect thing we could become if we just _stopped_. But guess what? This _thing_ isn't about monsters or demons or anything like that. It's me. There's no such thing as normal. Even if we stopped right now, it'd still be _me_.” He looks away, swallows. Sam suspects that if the outside world wasn't slowly being covered in a couple of feet of snow, Dean would be halfway out the door by now. “I'm gonna take a shower.”

Sam watches his brother snatch up some clean clothes and escape into the bathroom, door slamming shut and lock turning before the sudden rush of water can be heard through the closed door. On the television, Chandler is kissing Monica. The muted hooting of the audience sounds tinny and alien. 

...

It's more than an hour before Dean finally emerges from the bathroom, his hair dry. Sam's lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting. He doesn't speak as Dean walks the perimeter of the room, checking the salt lines and that the locks on the doors and windows are properly secured.

Slipping into his bed, Dean reaches over and turns off the light, plunging the room into darkness. He settles down, stubbornly ignoring the fact that Sam is still dressed and lying on top of the covers on the other bed, blinking against the sudden gloom.

Dean shifts again, the bed creaking under his weight and the covers rustling softly, and Sam counts the seconds in his head before his brother speaks.

“Look,” Dean says, his voice loud as it cuts through the quiet. “It's nothing.”

Sam grunts in reply. It's as much of an apology as they'll ever exchange.

“I don't need a shrink or... or anything like that,” his brother continues. “It's my business.”

Sam says nothing, and Dean clears his throat.

“Maybe you could, y'know... nudge me. When I zone out.” A pause. “Just to let me know.”

Sam swallows, and when he opens his mouth to speak his throat feels dry. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I could do that.”

“Okay.” There's a pause. “Good.” And that's that.

Outside in the parking lot a car has braved the storm, and Sam watches its headlights chase shadows across the walls of the room as the sound of its engine fades into the distance, replaced by the softness of Dean's breathing slowly deepening into sleep.

Sam lies awake for a while, contemplating normal, trying to define it; when he closes his eyes all he can see is Jess.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note #3** : When I started writing this in 2010 the most official name for CSP was still Dermatillomania. Since May 2013, with the release of the _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders_ , CSP has been classified as its own separate condition and is termed “excoriation disorder”. In short; the info quoted in this fic isn't up-to-date when it comes to the current definition, though it does comply with the timeframe of the setting (season one).


End file.
